(I get a call to go and pick up my very independent girlfriend from a nightclub because her overprotective work friends won’t let her leave without either getting in a taxi or having me come pick her up. The club is roughly a ten-minute walk from the house. I start to head to the club, carrying only keys, and clock a stranger on the other side of the road. He is walking in the opposite direction until he spots me and crosses over. I am rather tall and, according to my girlfriend, rather intimidating… until I open my mouth, because of my posh accent. I am always wary of people, as I was bullied at school by short people wanting to pick a fight, wanting to make their mark.)

Stranger: “Hey there!”

(He starts walking in the direction I am going, walking fairly quickly to try and keep pace. I am crossing a long bridge without any possible escape routes, putting me on edge.)

Stranger: “Where are you going?”

Me: *still walking, but determined to remain polite and non-provocative* “[Nightclub].”

Stranger: “Meeting someone special?”

(There is a creepy tone in his voice, which makes me even more wary.)

Me: “Yep.”

Stranger: “It’s a girl, right?” *gives a cocky grin* “I’m going there, too! Let’s get a taxi!”

Me: *thinking how he was initially walking north when the club was south, setting off more alarm bells* “I’m all right, mate; it’s not far.”

Stranger: “I don’t mind. We’ll get a taxi!”

Me: “You can get one if you want, but I don’t have any cash on me. It’s not far, though.”

Stranger: “Don’t worry; I’ll pay for it!”

(We get to the end of the bridge as he repeatedly tries to get me to flag down a taxi. I carry on down one side of the road whilst he starts to cross over to the other. My route involves crossing a road south, then going east; his route involves going east and then crossing the road to go south.)

Stranger: “Where are you going, mate? It’s this way!”

Me: “I’m going this way. Have a good evening!”

Stranger: “It’s this way, [gay slur]!”

(He continued walking his way to the nightclub, which was retracing the direction he originally came from. I can only assume he wanted to stiff me for a taxi fare. As it was so close, it was not worth getting a taxi to go a distance of two streets.)

(I park in the disabled bay in front of the office like I do every morning. I’m disabled and have a blue badge on display in the car. I notice a laminated sign someone has stuck on the end of the space saying, “Pregnant employees ONLY.” Figuring it has blown over from one of the regular parking bays I just put it carefully to one side and go into work. Coming out later that afternoon I find a parking ticket on my car! I take it into the security office and say this is obviously a mistake.)

Me: “Okay, think you got the wrong car, mate. I’m in the disabled bay with a disabled permit, so I’ve not done anything wrong.”

Security: “Did you see the sign this morning? ‘Pregnant employees only.’ You’re going to have to park in that disabled bay over the road.”

(It’s a four-lane dual carriageway.)

Me: “Is someone in the office disabled due to being pregnant or something?”

Security: “No, but she wants a guaranteed parking spot close to the building, so we’re using the disabled bay for now.”

Me: “I’m not paying this fine, you know, and I’m going to keep parking in that bay unless someone else has a disabled permit. If they do, then we can talk and work something out about sharing the car space.”

Security: “You keep parking there and we’ll tow your car. We’ve blocked it off for her use only.”

Me: “Let’s see how well that goes when I get the police involved for illegally towing a disabled person’s car. Just block off one of the regular bays if you really have to!”

Security: “No. We’ve chosen this one. You need to park elsewhere.”

Me: “Up yours!”

(Yeah, kind of lost my temper at the end there. I’m not paying the fine, and I will raise absolute chaos if anything happens to my car. We’ll see how this goes.)

Related:

Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 19

Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 18

Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 17

Fifteen years ago, I finally had a flat to myself again and, full of excitement, I had a friend drive me to a local shelter to adopt me a cat. To be specific, two cats. Indoor cats. Female. Indoor cats are a lot of hard work — and no one likes to deal with litter trays — but my new flat was on the junction of two very busy streets in a pretty grotty neighbourhood so outdoor cats seemed irresponsible.

We pulled up at the shelter and I leapt out of the car like a demented gazelle, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning, and barely managed to wait for my friend before charging inside. I explained what I was looking for to the young lady inside and she took me to look at the cats that were up for adoption. To my shock, about half of the cats seemed to be chocolate point siamese — several hundred pounds a pop, so not what you expect to find in a shelter.

The girl explained that they had all been rescued from a mad old cat lady who was keeping all twenty of them in a one-bedroom house and feeding them enough for maybe fifteen cats. They’d been in a real state when they were brought in, but they’d been fed up and were now full of beans. I was now, if anything, even more excited at the prospect of adopting as the thought of a pair of these magnificent kitties wandering around my flat was really exciting to me. I wandered up the aisle, taking my time and greeting each of the cats in turn, trying to not just yell, “OH, MY GOD! JACK WANT ALL KITTIES! GIVE KITTIES TO JACK NOW!

Cage after cage was filled with these huge, beautiful, and very, very vocal cats, pressing themselves against the front of the cages for pettings. I was totally confused — how would I ever choose? — until I got to the last cage. There, my confusion ended.

In this cage were, once again, two siamese cats. But these two were maybe half the size of the others, and they weren’t pressing against the front of the cage looking for cuddles. They were huddled at the back of the cage, as far away from humans as they could get. I later found out that they were also recovering from cat flu. The cat I would come to know as Sif was huddled into the corner as tightly as she could squeeze herself, and the warrior who would be Freya was lying half on top of her, cuddling as close as she could and I knew. I just knew.

Those other cats, brimming with health and confidence? They could go anywhere, be adopted by anyone, but these two were going to need a special home with someone patient, and I was determined that I would give them that home.

It’s taken years to get them to act like proper, confident goddesses-of-all-they-survey — y’know, cats — and they still get skittish around new people, but Sif will now walk up to people in my flat and demand cuddles — remember, siamese — and even Freya will allow people to pet her, though she has some hilariously specific rules.

And now, beloved readers, those two terrified little cats — the cats I didn’t even see for the first two weeks that they lived with me because they were hiding behind the fridge — those two cats will now not only climb onto my lap at any chance they get but, if I’m wearing a front opening top, they will climb inside that top — with no regard at all for my tender, easily-punctured skin! — and they curl up and they purr and purr as if they’ve finally found their happy spot. And sometimes this makes my face leak, just a little bit.

(I am a male nurse. On my coat is my “Man of Men” pin badge in support of Prostate Cancer UK, since my partner had surgery for prostate cancer in 2018. The badge is of a male stick figure with a smaller male figure within it. Whilst taking my order, a young male barista sees the badge and says:)

Barista: “That badge is really cool; what does it mean?”

Me: “It’s from Prostate Cancer UK. Did you know that it’s the biggest cause of death in men now? Since my partner was diagnosed, I’m keen to support the cause.”

Barista: “Wow… I wonder why it affects so many more men, then?”

Me: “Erm…”

(I’m working on the shop floor on this particular day, putting out stock. A woman comes up to me with a basket full of shopping.)

Woman: “I need a trolley. Can you get one for me? They usually let me borrow a trolley token from the tills.”

Me: “Of course. I’ll go and see if they have any.”

(In the past, we did indeed let people borrow trolley tokens sometimes; these were ones we usually sold for £1. We’d let the customers borrow them, ask them to return them, and then put them back in the packaging again afterward. But we stopped eventually because, as you can imagine, customers didn’t bother returning them. We did sometimes get tokens that customers had left behind, too, but eventually these, too, went wandering. Still, I go to the tills to confirm that we still don’t have any.)

Me: “We don’t have any trolley tokens a customer could borrow, do we?”

Colleague: “Not anymore, no. Just tell her there’s some for sale if she wants one.”

(I go back to the customer:)

Me: “Sorry, we don’t let customers borrow them anymore, unfortunately. But on the tills, at the moment, we do have an offer where you can buy two for £1.50.”

Woman: “No, I don’t want to pay for them! What else am I supposed to do?! This is heavy!”

Me: “I am sorry. I don’t know what else to suggest, but we can’t give any change or trolley tokens anymore.”

Woman: “Fine. I’ll just leave my shopping here, then!”

(She walked away, muttering under her breath, but didn’t leave her shopping as she’d threatened. A few minutes later, I was called to the tills to help get rid of a queue, and I saw her getting served by a colleague. She had gotten a trolley, and it was one of the store’s older, more battered trolleys which are usually kept in the warehouse to use for stock. I could only guess that she’d taken it when whichever member of staff had been using it had gone elsewhere for a moment. Sure enough, not long after getting back onto the shop floor, I walked past a colleague who had lost their trolley. The cardboard which had been in it had been lifted out and put onto the floor.)